


Draíocht

by stilinstuck (superagentwolf)



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - High School, Alternate Universe - No Hale Fire, Bad Decisions, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Kinda, M/M, Multi, Mysteries and Murder, Mythical Beings & Creatures, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Pack Dynamics, Slow Build, Stiles is Trying His Best, megafic
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-04-04
Updated: 2018-04-17
Packaged: 2019-04-18 06:09:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 10,943
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14206806
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/superagentwolf/pseuds/stilinstuck
Summary: *ON HOLD*In his dream, there were lights.-"Do you think he knows?""Of course, he knows. He's smart. If he hasn't figured it out yet, he will."-Every year, someone goes missing in Beacon Hills. It’s usually written off as a runaway or an inexperienced hiker—after all, there are a handful of visitors that come just to walk the forests. The forests are dangerous, though, and there are stories about what lingers within.Stiles has never bothered with stories; he’s too busy trying to survive the days leading up to freshman year. When Scott and Stiles end up in the woods one night, they get a firsthand encounter with the darkness that lurks—and become tangled in a web of deceptions and secrets older than the town itself.





	1. Shit.

_\- In the beginning, there were two brothers. One became hunter, the other hunted. -  
_

 

**Arc 1**

**T H E     S U N**

 

Stiles is stuck watching the rain fall backwards.

He hangs from his bed, sighing, the blood rushing to his head. The sky outside is a deep blue-gray, roiling with clouds. His window is foggy from the temperature difference; it’s freezing outside, a fall night creeping toward winter, but his room is warm. He almost wishes it were cold inside, too. Stiles has always loved curling into a den of blankets with nothing but a good book or his phone, to scroll through Wikipedia until three in the morning.

It’s his first day of school tomorrow. His first day of _high school_.

Stiles makes a displeased noise, righting himself, and starts to rearrange his bedroom. He feels a change coming. It itches under his skin, insistent, and before long, the room is a maze of drawers and stacked books. The towers teeter everywhere like uneasy spiders, swaying in an invisible wind. Stiles manages to pick through them with a grace he never has anywhere else.

“Kid?”

The grace is gone. It disappears just as quickly as Stiles, who squeaks and trips over something—or nothing—and tumbles to the floor. He stays there and looks up at his father, frowning, disoriented.

“ _Dad_.”

“Come on. Dinner,” his father says, something like exasperation and fondness in his eyes. Stiles lets out a noise of protest as the man descends the stairs.

“Dad! I told you, tomorrow is the _only_ day—”

“Well, son, there’s nothing ready and I have work soon. How long have you been moving your room around?”

Stiles looks down at his phone, blanching. _Four hours?_ It’s the curse of summer, he thinks, to have time slip away just when he wants it the most. Stiles jumps into the passenger seat of his dad’s cruiser, earning a dry look when the door slams shut a bit too hard. Stiles just shrugs, fumbling with his seatbelt as his father shakes his head. They drive down the street and Stiles looks to Scott’s house, wondering what his best friend is doing. _Probably dreaming about lacrosse_. As much ‘practicing’ as they’ve been doing over the summer, Stiles knows it’ll be nearly impossible for Scott to make it onto the team. Besides the fact that Scott is asthmatic, he isn’t quite as fast as Stiles—and Stiles isn’t a star, either. As much as Stiles wants to make it with his best friend, he knows it probably won’t happen. But he can dream.

His father, of course, drives them to a burger place. Stiles settles for giving him the stink eye even as the sheriff ignores him, rattling off their usual order. Stiles stress-eats (anger eats?) some of the curly fries in the bag on their way back, watching the skies. The rain seems to have lessened to a mist, the usual California haze making everything seem dreary and moody.

The radio crackles. Stiles barely catches a string of numbers before his father reaches for it, maybe about to turn it down.

“That’s a person in the woods, right?” Stiles asks, turning from the window, stopping in mid-chew. His father gives him a Look.

Noah’s Looks are patented. He has one for almost every occasion. Most of the occasions involve Stiles making some sort of mistake, but that’s beside the point. The _point_ is, this look is one that Stiles doesn’t see that often. It’s the kind of look that says, _I wish it weren’t like this._ It’s got bedrock of guilt, stacked with weariness and frustration. Stiles knows his father wishes it were easier to do his job or protect his son from the truth. It just hasn’t been like that.

It really never was.

“All right. I’m leaving you at home. Try not to break anything in your room,” his father says, sighing. Stiles doesn’t reply; he knows the motions his father goes through. The stages he has before accepting his duty and leaving.

The sheriff eats his burger while he drives. It’s another juxtaposition—that’s a word Stiles is learning for the SAT, because you can never start too soon—that makes everything seem worse. Noah knows he’ll be out for most of the night, and he needs the energy to make it through. Especially since there’s a body.

There’s always a body. Well, there’s a body every year.

It’s one of those things that just _is_ , like Stiles knowing about police codes and Noah eyeing the bottles in the kitchen every few nights. In Beacon Hills, there are bodies. Sometimes. It’s really just disappearances, actually. People go missing every year—the disappearances are chalked up to runaways or hikers. Runaways, because Beacon Hills is tiny and not even remotely compelling. Hikers, because there’s a forest.

_The_ forest.

Maybe that’s the real story, here. Well, whatever.

Stiles is left in his driveway, his father warning him for the third time to stay inside and _for the love of God, don’t break anything, or yourself_. The cruiser disappears down the road and Stiles waves, the burger starting to sit heavy in his stomach. He worries at his lip and locks the front door behind him, climbing the stairs with a lingering feeling of unease. The room is in disarray, kind of like how his head feels—he can’t really capture anything; the world seems to shift around him, ideas and questions coming and going like fish at a pond. He can’t hold anything down. His fingers tap against his leg, beating a secret rhythm.

It only takes a minute for Stiles to turn on his heel, zipping his hoodie up to his neck, taking the stairs two at a time. He thumps down them with a heavy beat, heart skipping in anticipation. He has an idea.

Scott’s house is close by. Stiles makes it there easily, climbing the familiar tree in the front yard, mindlessly counting the branches as he goes. The roof is slick under his hands and he whispers _gross_ at the wet leaves there, wondering whether Scott is asleep yet. His friend’s bedroom window is dark. Stiles moves toward it, testing his weight, and something creaks. _Shit._

The front door opens just as Stiles stumbles, scrambling to get across the slanted roof, and then he’s sliding on his stomach, heart pounding. He slips, the edge of the roof biting into his stomach, and then he’s face-to-face with Scott.

They both scream. Scott has a bat.

“ _My_ bat,” Stiles says, incredulous, one hand gripping the roof while the other dangles uselessly toward the ground. Scott sighs, inhaler in hand. Stiles feels a little bit guilty, but only a little bit, because the bat is an inch from his face. And it’s his.

“Stiles? What are you doing?”

“Your mom’s not home?”

“No, she had to go to the hospital for a shift,” Scott says, frowning a little. _More shifts. More work for more money._ “What are you doing here?”

“Wanna go check the woods out?” He hadn’t known it was what he would say. He just says it, somehow because it feels right and also because his skin is itchy and tomorrow is their first day of high school. Scott glances past Stiles—there are a few trees, across the road, behind the houses in the other row. Not quite the forest, but green and dense enough to hide. They had played Nerf wars there, when they were younger.

“What? Why?”

“Police radio. I think something’s out there.”

“Then wouldn’t we want to stay away from it?” Scott watches Stiles struggle to come down. Stiles can feel his jeans snagging on something as he maneuvers his body toward the edge of the roof, gripping it with both hands. He loses his grip after a second, a small _whoa_ escaping his lips as he falls to the ground. He’s up in one second, righted and sore.

“No, dude—where’s your sense of adventure? Come on. It’s probably nothing big. Anyway, you want to start off the year with a cool story, or no?”

Stiles grins and waits. He knows there are only two ways this could go—either Scott agrees, or he doesn’t and Stiles ends up eating paper at home. The itch is getting worse. Scott sighs, but he passes the bat to Stiles.

Stiles feels a little guilty. He knows that he should know better—he should be at home, or bouncing on the trampoline in his backyard, or doing virtually _anything else_ to distract himself. Still, Scott is his best friend and it’s not the first time they’ve skirted the edge of the forest. They’d done it a lot in their younger years, although it had always been in the daylight.

You don’t go into the forest at night.

“Yeah, all right. The doctor said I should get fresh air.”

“Your doctor’s an asshole, dude. Asthma can’t be cured by fresh air.”

“Let me get my jacket,” Scott says, ducking into his house. Stiles hops up onto the banister, rolling the bat on his lap. It’s one of the many he owns—the others are in his room and garage, squirreled away like collectibles. Stiles hasn’t used any of them in years. Not since his father used to take him out to the batting cages. _Always with a promise for ice cream afterward._

Seven or eight years. Maybe more, depending on how he counts them.

Scott emerges and they both hop on the bikes Scott offers, the clicking of the wheels echoing softly in the night air. Beacon Hills is…interesting, at night. It always seems darker. The roads turn oil-slick black with mist and the trees seem to swallow up any light. Stiles has always enjoyed he stillness of the forest and the quiet of the small town, but he’s also always been wary of what lurks in dark corners. He’s seen some of his father’s files. He knows the danger.

“What do you think it is?”

“What?”

“The thing in the woods,” Scott says, standing up a little as he pedals up a small incline. Stiles follows close behind, trying not to get too far ahead.

“I don’t know. Probably nothing. Maybe a lost hiker.”

“But it could be a body.”

“It probably isn’t,” Stiles says, frowning to himself. He curves his path around a tiny stone in the road, leaning just so. “They find them in other places. It’s never this close to the edge. Anyway, it’s not really the right time.”

“There’s a time that’s best to find bodies?” Scott screws up his nose, glancing into the woods like he expects them to start creeping forward. Stiles waves him toward the tree line, where there’s a small gap between two giants. A path. There are lights in the distance, red and blue, so Stiles tucks his bike against some trees and shudders in his jacket while Scott climbs off his bike.

They walk into the forest without much fanfare. It reminds Stiles of other days—times when things seemed less dark and Scott would run, whooping and yelling, Nerf gun in hand. Times when Stiles hadn’t worried as much about his father’s cases and the sinking feeling that nothing was going to be the same anymore.

The earth was wet and smelled like dying plants. It was cold enough to warn that winter was coming, but not cold enough to put sheets of paper-thin ice on the forest floor. The trees had a heavy scent that lingered as if it wanted to suck out all of the oxygen in the air.

“Are you sure about this? I think they’re searching close to us,” Scott says, stepping through a few piles of moss and needles.

“We’ll be fine. They move slow,” Stiles replies under his breath, picking a path further into the woods. He sees something—a kind of trail, like someone was running and beat the earth down to dirt. Stiles frowns, glancing around the area. There are alarms ringing in his head. He feels an electric buzz humming just over his skin, making the hairs on his arms stand on end.

_Something’s wrong._

Stiles felt his heart climb into his throat as he approaches a gap between trees where the ground dips sharply, feeding into a small clearing. He can hear his voice in the back of his head ( _it could be a hiker, it would be great if we helped and found them_ ) but it’s drowned out by the roar of horror rising in his chest. Whatever fixation he had was pinpointed now, trained on the pale figure on the forest floor.

Before he can open his mouth to warn Scott, Stiles hears a thump and an _oof_. Scott stumbles down the incline, arms reaching for something to break his fall, and Stiles jumps down after him. When Scott hits the ground, groaning a little as he lays on his back, Stiles holds his breath. They’re close to the body. He tries not to look at it but he can’t tear his eyes away.

“What?” Scott asks, trying to rise, and Stiles shakes his head. His only thought is, _he can’t see it. I can’t let him._ He doesn’t want to be responsible for that.

Scott’s back is to the body and Stiles pushes him back to the trees, intent on keeping him away.

“Don’t look back,” Stiles says, aware that his voice is both unsteady and harsh. “Go, Scott. Hurry. Go—”

Stiles never finishes. There’s a rustle to their left and Scott starts, his breath hitching. Stiles feels panic start to cloud his mind. _Inhaler. Where’s his inhaler?_ He wants to ask but then there’s a louder noise to their right and Stiles is shoving Scott toward the road, chanting the same thing over and over.

“ _Go,_ Scott, run—”

Flashlights shine and then Stiles is tripping, losing his sense of direction as Scott’s footsteps pound in his ears. They’re separated. He can hear his heartbeat as much as he can feel it and then he scrambles to his feet and Scott is gone.

_Shit. Shit, shit, shit—_

Stiles clenches his teeth. He can’t yell. They’ll hear.

He tries to see the forest floor, looking for footprints to follow. He stumbles, hands smacking tree trunks that scratch him like angry animals. He feels sticky and dirty, covered in grains of dirt that make him itch and want to crawl out of his skin as much as the panic does. Stiles knows, from the way the world is tilting, that he’s dangerously close to a panic attack, but he doesn’t let it happen. He forces himself to concentrate, thinking of Scott and how _this is all my fault._

Stiles stumbles because suddenly, the ground disappears from under his feet and he’s flying into a clearing bigger than the last one. There’s a tree stump a few feet away from him, massive and strangely colored. He reaches for it to get a grip and pull himself up, but then there’s a noise and Stiles rolls onto his back, ready to fight.

“Scott?” Stiles hisses, staring at his best friend. Scott is standing there, looking shaken but intact. He glances at Stiles, lost, but somehow manages to hold out a hand to help.

He pulls Stiles to his feet in one smooth motion. It feels strange.

“What happened?” Stiles asks, glancing toward the approaching flashlights. “Shit. Come on, we should go.”

“Something bit me,” Scott says, frowning faintly, his hands going to his side. Stiles inhales sharply at the blood he sees there. He yanks Scott’s shirt up immediately, only half worried about the deputies crawling their way.

“It’s fine,” Stiles realizes, wiping at some of the blood. “There’s nothing. Are you sure—”

“Stiles. We gotta go,” Scott says suddenly, turning on his heel. Stiles follows him, dizzy with the change of direction, and they somehow make their way to the road while tripping over practically everything in the woods.

They don’t speak when they find their bikes, throwing them toward the town before jumping on. It takes them a full five minutes to get back, even going downhill, and Stiles keeps looking over his shoulder with the gnawing feeling that they’re being followed. His emotions can’t settle down and decide how to overwhelm him; there’s guilt, horror, excitement, and worry. He thinks half about his father and whether the sheriff will come home in a bad way, while the other half ruminates on the fact that Stiles almost got his best friend killed.

Scott’s house looms before them and they skid to a stop in the driveway, panting.

“What was that?” Scott asks, a hand at his side. He looks down, pulling his shirt up. “I swear it bit me. I felt it.”

“Maybe it was just a bat. The bite could be tiny,” Stiles supplies, swallowing his worry.

“No. It was big. _Really_ big. Like…I don’t know.”

“Like what? A mountain lion? Or—”

Scott jumps before pulling his phone out of his pocket, wincing when he sees the screen. Stiles rubs a hand over his face, mind racing. _What was that? What killed her? I saw…_

“Mom’s on her way home.”

“Okay. Okay, well, we’ll talk tomorrow,” Stiles says, already chewing away at his bottom lip. He knows he won’t sleep. Not with the image of the body fresh in his mind.

“Yeah, okay. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

Scott tries to smile, but it falls a little flat. Stiles tries to smile back, but as good as he is at faking it, he can’t cover up his anxiety. _What was in the woods?_ He feels the question echo and knock around his mind like a stray button.

Even after Stiles waves goodbye and starts his walk home, he still feels a lingering doubt. An uneasiness. It grips him as he reaches his house, heading upstairs after scrubbing his shoes in the grass to get rid of the wet soil. He tries to shake it off when he showers, palms stinging in the spray of water. They’re red and worried, fine scratches crisscrossing them. Stiles tries not to think of how much it’ll hurt to hold a pencil.

When he finally crawls into bed, Stiles thinks maybe his father will come home. He waits for a little while, expecting the sound of the front door, but it never comes. He falls asleep dreaming of blank eyes and waxy skin, fingers reaching toward him through the dead things on the ground.


	2. Enter Three

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Scott is feeling strange and the Hales have developed a sudden interest in Stiles. The Twilight Zone turn that things have taken are getting to Stiles, but they don't stop him from thinking that the first place to look should be the trees. They were, after all, where things started.  
> Stiles doesn't consider it making the same mistake twice until after he goes.

The first day is (predictably) a mess. Stiles wakes up after his two early alarms, still dead tired from his nighttime exploration, and there are lingering images of a body behind his eyelids. He barely has the presence of mind to dress and grab a frozen waffle, escaping the house in a rush.

Scott is waiting for him. They bike to school while Scott chatters incessantly about lacrosse and meeting new people. Stiles almost can’t believe how peppy his best friend is.

Stiles’ first cue that something is off happens before he even sets foot inside the school. He says something about Lydia, who walks by smelling like strawberries and cinnamon, her hair shining copper in the sun. It’s the usual routine; by this point, his childhood crush has morphed into something more genuine, but different. While Scott smiles and lets Stiles wax poetic about the way Lydia walks (which is poetic all on its own), the Hales arrive on campus.

_The_ Hales.

The Hale family are all minor celebrities. They practically own half the town—or at least half the parts that bring in the wealth of Beacon Hills. They also happen to live in the woods, which makes them both mystifyingly desirable and frighteningly dangerous. The Hales own the nature preserve in Beacon Hills, which is a powerhouse for tourism and genuine inquiries. They also own a good portion of the land that hikers frequent—until, of course, they drift off the paths and go missing. Despite their connection to the very thing that seems to make Beacon Hills a death trap, no one really calls the Hales out. Well, almost no one. The few that do are usually met with the level stare of Talia, matriarch and vaguely terrifying head of the family, whose calm rebuttals always seem to make any other arguments die before they take their first breath.

Cora is the first to emerge from the shiny, red Impala—’66, Stiles notes (while drooling) —with a seemingly permanent scowl affixed to her lips. She’s about as outright scary as her mother, although hers is a more weightless intimidation. With Cora, you only ever had to worry that she was going to eviscerate you, not string you inside out on a conspicuous tree somewhere in the woods. Cora always seemed to have smudged eyeliner, making her eyes look bigger than they already are—and she uses them to pin people down with a gaze as sharp as a needle.

Derek is next. He is already the belle of the school, of course, with his suave smiles and the basketball that’s permanently affixed to his hip. Middle school had been nearly unbearable two years ago, when Derek had been in eighth grade; Stiles had tripped over more people (guys, girls, anyone in between) trying to date Derek that he’d developed a knee-jerk aversion to even the site of the middle Hale.

Laura, the driver, is last. She is the pinnacle of being a Hale, Stiles had always thought. Clearly the next in line, despite older family members. Laura is an untamed waterfall of dark brown hair, her outfits always screaming girl gang but her demeanor as pleasant as if she were the president’s daughter (which, Stiles supposed she kind of was). Everyone loved Laura. She was famous even in middle school for her parties, which were actually never hers; they were a friend’s, and Laura just hijacked them by virtue of her presence. If Laura happened to swoop down upon your function and offer to help with a smile and an elegant cross of her legs, you shut up and accepted, because you’d be wearing the secondhand glow for at least a month.

The three Hales were freshman, sophomore, and senior. Stiles knew that logically, he was bound to run into them around the tiny school. He just never expected _them_ to notice _him_.

Stiles is still saying something about Lydia when Scott nudges him—gentle at first, then panicked.

“What? What—” Stiles asks, disgruntled, and then he follows Scott’s wide-eyed gaze.

All three Hales are staring at him from the parking lot.

_This is where I die._

Stiles doesn’t know what the fuck he did to invoke the wrath of the entire pack of teens, but he suddenly feels far less optimistic about his freshman year.

The bell rings and Stiles nearly sprints for the front doors, tugging Scott alongside him. He tries to ignore the eyes boring into his back as he escapes into the crowd, a seed of despair planted in his chest. _Was it too much to ask just to have a normal high school experience? Probably_ , he thinks miserably, walking to his first period class. When he takes a seat, he silently prays that he never bumps into the Hales again—and then Cora appears in the doorway, her stare cementing him to his seat. He is frozen as she walks to the seat behind him, apparently staring someone down (Stiles can hear them gulp) before they scramble away, leaving the space for her.

_Kill me now,_ Stiles thinks, fighting the urge to turn and look. He can feel the eyes of the rest of the class on him as much as Cora’s gaze. They seem to be marking him for later reference, probably storing his face away under their list of people not to associate with.

Not even one minute in, and Stiles has already been outcast like Hester Prynne, except without the added benefit of having had sex. _Well, at least it’s without the kid, too_.

It’s little consolation.

* * *

After a long day of patented Hale stares, Stiles gets home feeling like he’s run a marathon. It’s emotionally exhausting to be at the business end of not one, but _three_ people’s scrutiny. He doesn’t even know what he did, which is the most frustrating part. It was literally his first day of school. _There hasn’t been time for me to do anything_.

Scott texts him, which is only a little bit weird, because they both went home together. Stiles slumps in his desk chair, leaning back as he opens the message.

**[SCOOT]** : hey, wat r u doin

**[RED]:** nm wbu

**[SCOOT]:** im feeling really weird

**[RED]:** aw cmon scott i dont need to know that

**[SCOOT]:** im serious, its like i have too much energy or sm and my chest feels kinda weird

Stiles sits up in his chair, frowning. Something nags at him from the back of his mind—a memory, maybe. _Is it a panic attack?_ He taps his foot on the floor, worried. Part of him wants to go to Scott’s but he pauses, trying to think things through. His hand reaches for the crystal on his desk, a tiny thing attached to a thin chain necklace. There’s a tiny diffuser ball on it, too, with a mix of things Stiles hasn’t been able to completely identify. A talisman of sorts, from his mother’s side of the family. He has complicated feelings about it.

**[RED]:** asthma?

**[SCOOT]:** dont think so

**[SCOOT]:** shit

**[RED]:** WHAT

Stiles waits for an answer, poised to jump from his chair or call Melissa or…something. He feels like a spring coiled too tight.

He also feels guilty again.

**[SCOOT]:** inhaler gone, think i dropped it last night

**[RED]:** stay there omw

It takes him two minutes, practically sprinting, to get to Scott’s. He’s half terrified to find his friend on the floor or having an attack; the guilt gnaws at him like an angry creature. Stiles practically hammers the door down with his hand before trying the doorknob. It’s locked. He’s about ready to kick through the window when the front door swings open, Scott standing there, looking vaguely surprised.

“You’re sure you dropped it?”

“Yeah. I checked everywhere,” Scott says, sighing. He turns to slip on his shoes but Stiles stops him, the guilt rising again.

“Whoa. Hey. You’re staying here—and by the phone. We’re not risking it, especially after what happened last night.”

“You can’t go out by yourself,” Scott says, incredulous. “You said it yourself—”

“I did. Yes. But I’m faster than you, remember? Anyway, it won’t take long. I know where we were. I’ll just find it and come back,” Stiles reassures him, even though his heart is pounding and his palms are sweaty. Scott doesn’t look convinced.

“Why don’t we just call—”

“No. No, we _definitely_ shouldn’t call my dad,” Stiles says, panic rising in his throat. He can’t even imagine what his father would say. What his face would look like when he realized Stiles had not only gone out, but had dragged Scott with him. The last thing Stiles needed to end his shitty day was his father grounding him and being disappointed. “Don’t worry!”

Stiles takes the bike leaning on the porch and hauls ass, convincing himself it’s the air stinging his eyes with tears. As much as he feels like a mess of emotion and bad decisions, he knows he has a task to complete. He has to find Scott’s inhaler. It’s the least he can do, especially after dragging his best friend into the woods and potentially letting him get bit by some animal.

The woods are…strange. They’re always strange, of course, but something dark lingers by the path Stiles rolls up to. He thinks it’s probably just the fact that he’d seen a body there, but something about that doesn’t sit well. It’s more of a sickness, permeating the ground and rising up like fumes. Stiles climbs off the bike and reluctantly steps into the forest, the smell of pine needles and something rotten lingering in the air. He judges his location by the telltale signs of law enforcement—heavy footprints and the yellow tape. Stiles is about ready to crawl on his hands and knees to find the damn thing.

Something rustles in the distance.

Stiles ignores the sound even though his heart pounds in his chest and his eyes flicker to the dense foliage before him. _It’s probably just a dog or a bird or a rabbit,_ he tells himself. He’s realistic, but not stupid. He keeps an eye out, even though he knows it’s probably nothing.

He’s there for about twenty minutes, hands and knees, combing through the muck on the ground. It takes him maybe half that time to realize it isn’t there. _It’s probably evidence,_ Stiles realizes, feeling stupid and guilty. The bright-ass thing would have stood out by now; it’s supposed to, given that they live in a forested area and it’s an inhaler. He just doesn’t see it anywhere.

The rustling returns, accompanied by an audible _snap_.

Stiles knows something is approaching. A thousand things invade his mind—his father’s lessons about wildlife and muggers, a million statistics, and the fact that he doesn’t have a weapon on him. Of course, the thing he fixates on is the stupid crystal in his pocket. He wraps it around his left hand because he thinks, at least, he could be identified by the damn thing.

The first things he sees are eyes, peering out at him from the bushes. They’re bloody and red, almost glowing in the shadows. Part of Stiles’ brain (which is occupied with mixed amounts of horror and fascination) tells him the color shouldn’t be possible.

It emerges from the shadow, a grey-brown wolf that is _way_ too big to be real, and Stiles feels his breathing stop. He is consumed by the sight; if he weren’t about to be mauled, he’d be pretty excited. The wolf growls, low and rumbling, and Stiles swears he can feel the bass in his bones.

He is not proud of what he does.

Stiles is on his feet faster than he’s ever done anything before and then, he runs. He runs like he never has before, probably faster than when he practices with Scott, and he thinks, _if only Finstock could see me, now._ His red shoes fly across the ground and it’s like there are no obstacles in his way—none of the roots or rocks he’d tripped on the night before. The forest practically spits him out, right by his bike, and he’s on it and zooming down the incline so fast that he thinks he might die anyway by falling down.

The growl is still in his head when he gets to Scott’s house.

* * *

Scott assures Stiles over and over that it’s not a big deal. As much as Stiles doesn’t believe him, his heart is still pounding and Scott seems like he’ll chain Stiles to the radiator if he thinks about going back again.

“Do you think that’s what bit me?” Scott asks, chewing on the cord of his earbuds. He runs them out almost as fast as Stiles does, but they’re easy to come by around town. Stiles and Scott used to hunt for them, relics left behind by tourists and locals alike, and compare their hauls.

“Dude, if that thing bit you, you’d be dead.”

“Maybe it got spooked and ran away.”

“A giant wolf? Get spooked?” Stiles squints at his best friend, trying to sound relaxed. “You sure it didn’t bite your head, bro?”

Scott seems happier after that and Stiles continues to distract him. They don’t really have homework; it’s the first day of school. Most of the day passes with video games and Scott’s incessant talk about Allison, who is apparently Chris Argent’s daughter.

The Argents are the other half of the celebrity population, although they’re nowhere near as famous. The Argents are pretty much the only other wealthy people in town that are on par with the Hales. Gerard, the patriarch, is barely seen. He’s supposedly always in his palatial home, holed up in an office from which he controls half the small businesses in Beacon Hills. Victoria is mostly a socialite, although she supposedly runs a boutique in town. Chris is an arms dealer, or something like that (because no one’s going to ask him to his face). Kate is in college—or at least, she’s enrolled at the community college, but she’s rumored to spend more time crashing college parties and passive-aggressively competing with Laura.

Allison is a sweetheart. That’s the most important thing about her. Well—that, and Stiles has seen her drop-kick a guy who tried to steal her purse at the mall. It was awesome.

Anyway, Scott has a major crush on Allison and as much as Stiles supports him, Allison is best friends with Lydia—which means it’s a long shot. Not as long as Stiles and Lydia had been, but still far enough out of reach for Stiles to feel kind of bad. He wonders distantly if this is what Scott felt like, all the years he watched Stiles chase Lydia.

If it is, he kind of hates it.

* * *

His father isn’t home when Stiles gets back at seven, escaping Scott’s before Melissa gets back. He doesn’t want to intrude any longer and his thoughts keep drifting back to the wolf in the woods.

Stiles spends too much time making macaroni. He shreds cheese and heats the oven with all the enthusiasm of a dead man, nearly grating his finger at one point. By the time the glass pan is in the oven, he’s miserable.

There are papers on the table, so his father came home at one point.

Stiles stares at the papers. He imagines he can heart them singing to him wickedly, voices a clamoring rush of _just one look_. He stubbornly looks the other way, facing his palms toward the oven to feel the heat, but his eyes are dragged back like reluctant prisoners.

“Fuck it,” Stiles mutters to the air, crossing the room to sit at the table. His hands pause above the manila folder, hesitating with a twitch. He shoves his thoughts down, concentrating on the papers in front of him.

He doesn’t flinch when he opens the file to find pictures of the body. He’s seen it.

There isn’t much inside. A few scrawled notes about the area around the body and some thoughts about it. _They probably don’t have the autopsy results yet_. Under the new information, however, are other papers. Stiles recognizes his father’s aptly-named cheat sheets, typed and abbreviated accounts of other crimes that might be connected.

The thing is, there are _dozens_.

The cheat sheets are filled with names and Does, bullets punctuating the facts under their names: where they were found, what state they were in, when they were found, how long it took to find them, details about their deaths. It doesn’t take long for Stiles to see the patterns. They’re all missing persons found in the woods. They were all, without fail, mauled—but dry of blood.

Stiles stares at the papers with a bitter taste in his mouth.

He jumps up, suddenly sharply focused, and goes to the garage. Half of it is neatly organized with boxes, dusty from disuse but structured. Stiles worms his way between a few stacks and finds the edge of an old glass whiteboard, just as grimy as everything else but in perfect condition. He wheels it into the house without trouble (because hitting his elbows and toes on corners is just routine to him, by now) and yanks it up the stairs, mind already racing. The papers on the table are waiting for him and he prints copies in his room, taking the stack and shoving it on his desk. Stiles makes sure the file on the table looks untouched before spooning a mess of macaroni into a bowl, balancing it and a glass of water as he escapes up the stairs.

_Okay._ The papers are littered on the table and the board stares back at him, see-through and untouched. He stands, food abandoned, and snatches a marker from his desk.

Stiles spends the next hour papering his board and writing notes.

When he’s finished, he sends a text to Scott. Stiles worries at his bottom lip, wondering what he should ask. Whether he should. _This was my fault to begin with. Maybe I should just not ask. I’m probably crazy_. Still, he feels a tug of wrongness in his gut and he follows it because it’s what he does. He can’t do anything else.

**[RED]:** hey what else has been happening

There’s a roll of painter’s tape on his desk. Red, because of course. Stiles can taste the faintness of copper on his tongue—blood, because he can’t stop biting his lip. He gazes at the death reports and writes a question. _Why mauled but exsanguinated? Unclear order._

**[SCOOT]:** r u talking about feeling weird?

**[SCOOT]:** idk man just really weirdly hyper and

**[SCOOT]:** strong???

Stiles stares at the last message when it pops up, frozen, the marker in his mouth tasting bitter and plastic. He swallows around the pen, carefully putting his phone down and capping the marker before answering.

**[RED]:** strong how

**[SCOOT]:** like after a workout but better

**[SCOOT]:** also I might have fallen off my bed at night or something bc I’m really sensitive to sound so maybe I hit my head but that’s another story

**[RED]:** k thanks

The reply disappears into the air before Stiles even has a chance to think of something better to say. There’s a growing dread in his chest and he turns to his laptop, glancing out the window. It’s already pitch-black. _Guess dad isn’t coming home._ He feels relieved at first and then guilty. As much as he doesn’t want to get caught investigating, he also doesn’t like it when his father stays out at the station for too long. He’s not the same, when he gets home.

He’s not the same most of the time, these days.

Stiles researches and prints until he’s dead tired and then a little bit longer. He manages to shove the glass board into his closet at one point, reasoning that his father might come home anyway. Before long, his vision is swimming and the night is practically smothering him. He ignores it and pushes on, but then Stiles is encased in darkness and there’s nothing left for him but the depths of a dead sleep, pulling him down into nothingness.

* * *

Stiles is exhausted. He stands at his locker, feeling like he’s carrying his weight under his eyes, as Scott talks about upcoming tryouts. Stiles can’t even bring himself to feign interest, too burned out from his research.

Too scared by it.

He’d read a lot. Too much, probably, but Stiles has always prided himself on being thorough. There are too many strange pointers and too many puzzle pieces that don’t fit. He almost feels like he’s trying to make a pancake without flour. Everything is there for him except the most important thing of all.

A floating mindset follows him around the school and then, as Stiles is walking to his first class, someone bumps into him and sends him tripping the floor. Before he can hit the floor, a hand appears from the crowd, righting him. Stiles blinks, about to offer his thanks, and then he sees who the hand is attached to.

Laura Hale.

She stands there, a perfectly-glossed smile directed at him, greenish eyes rimmed in smoky brown. Her hair smells like cheesecake and cigarette smoke (which, weird) and Stiles has to actively fight the urge to take a deep breath.

“Careful, honey. Don’t want to ruin that face,” Laura says. Stiles is beginning to understand what people mean when they say she makes any party she attends. Her words aren’t threatening; they’re sharply teasing but kind. Like she’s some horse-sized dog that could kill you but would rather curl up like a lapdog.

_Boy, is that an image_.

“Uh—thanks,” Stiles manages, because he’s very inarticulate and a pretty person is staring him in the face with a smize that could put Tyra Banks to shame.

“You’re Stiles, right? Sheriff’s son?”

“Yes. Why—”

“I’d hate to see you get hurt,” Laura says with the same smile as before, but gaze is a little harder. Like she’s trying not to be serious or scare him. It’s not working. Stiles feels his heart putter as much as it can, given his medication and lack of sleep. Laura frowns a little, right on cue, as if she can hear it.

“Yeah, me too,” Stiles sputters, blinking, and then Scott returns from the bathroom and starts pulling him toward class. Scott doesn’t even seem to notice Laura.

Stiles lets himself be pulled along, but he glances over his shoulder to see Laura watching him go. A shiver runs up his spine; he associates it with the eyes pinned to him. As if it weren’t hard enough for him to function on a daily basis, he now remembers the Hales’ strange behavior and the way Stiles ended up inadvertently exiling both himself and Scott. He still has no clue what he did, but he knows that it’s not going to change anytime soon—even if Laura had seemed helpful.

_Whatever,_ he tells himself, sliding into his desk. _I have bigger things to worry about_. He repeats it like a mantra throughout class, scribbling furiously in the back of his notebook. He has a list of questions and theories by the time class is over—but he’s no closer to the answer.

* * *

Finstock delays tryouts. Stiles is immeasurably relieved—he’s still exhausted and in no condition to run. Anyway, Scott still doesn’t have an inhaler and Stiles isn’t keen on possibly watching his best friend pass out on the grass.

Instead of full-on tryouts, Finstock has them running laps and doing drills. He calls it ‘thinning the herd’ and Stiles calls it a waste of time. There’s so much he could be doing—researching the disappearances, looking for the inhaler, trying to figure out why the Hales seem to hate him. Instead, Stiles is stuck gasping for air after a brutal sprint.

Scott has to run directly home to make dinner for his mom. Stiles waves him away and goes to the locker room, already behind everyone else; by the time he showers and pulls on soft sweatpants, there’s no one left.

Except Derek.

Stiles emerges from the showers, shirt sticking to his back, and finds the middle Hale glaring at him from next to the lockers. Stiles does _not_ squeak. He swallows his panic, staring back at Derek with what he hopes is an unimpressed expression, and waits.

“Do you need something? I think the basketball team is at the other end of the hall,” Stiles says, after a tense minute of Derek glaring.

“You’re an idiot, and you need to stay out of it,” Derek says. Stiles thinks his eyes would flash, if they could. _Okay. This is weird._

Stiles is getting the sinking feeling that everyone around him knows more than they’re letting on—the Hales, especially. It’s not good for his state of mind, feeling left out and unsafe. Stiles looks at Derek, biting his lip, hesitating to say anything. He sure doesn’t want to push it, but Derek is making it hard to ignore what’s happening.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Don’t play dumb with me. Stay the hell away from McCall.”

_Scott?_ The name throws Stiles for a loop and he struggles to keep up, suddenly confused. He’d thought that maybe Derek knew about Stiles’ foray into the woods, or had maybe overheard him talking to Scott, but this makes no sense. _Why would he want me to stay away from Scott? How does he even know his name?_

There’s no time to guess or ask questions. Derek crosses the distance between them and then his hand slams into the lockers, right next to Stiles’ face. His hazel eyes are sharp when he stares Stiles down, a coolly disinterested expression schooling his features. Derek is the very picture of intimidation, radiating barely-held restraint and danger.

“You know, coach isn’t going to like you damaging school property. He’s gonna chew you out when he gets back.” It’s a paper-thin warning; even as Stiles says it, he knows it’s clumsy and weak. Derek seems to ignore it, his gaze as cold as ever.

“You’re in over your head. Leave it—and leave Scott McCall alone,” Derek repeats, backing away. Stiles watches him retract his hand and turn to leave without a second glance back.

Stiles is left in the locker room, getting colder with the water still lingering on his skin. He stares at the ground, a swirl of confusion and questions deafening in his mind. He can feel something screaming at him—a clue he forgot, a question he didn’t ask, research sitting on his desk at home. It’s insistent and Stiles fixates on it, forcing himself to think. _Think._

It hits him in a wash of cold, freezing him to his core. His mouth is dry and suddenly all he can see in his mind are headlines and autopsy reports, words like _mauled_ and _woods_ repeating.

“Shit,” Stiles hisses, turning on his heel and running from the room. _I know what it is._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This fic will update weekly (hopefully) for the foreseeable future. Please enjoy and feel free to comment and share!


	3. Back to the Woods

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stiles is coming up with a lot of stuff that he isn't sure he wants to be the answer. Meanwhile, the Hales are an ever-growing presence at the back of his mind and Scott is swept up in a blossoming crush.

“That’s her,” Scott gasps, turning toward his locker like he wants to climb in. Stiles blinks, looking down the hallway, trying to visually sort through the crowd.

Allison is pretty, but not in the same way that Lydia is. She’s softer in some ways, but stronger in others—her brown hair is curled and bouncing alongside her dimples, but she’s also got a firm gaze and confident stride. It’s obvious why Scott likes her.

“You can look, you know. She’s not going to turn you to stone,” Stiles says, trying to smile as he shoves books into his locker. It’s only midway through the day and he’s already exhausted. He’d spent most of the night researching, but he’d still refused to accept anything he thought he knew until he finished scouring every available book.

He’d laughed hysterically the entire bike ride home. He had climbed the stairs past the empty kitchen, throwing his backpack and jacket off in a flurry, pawing through the printouts on his desk before he even had time to contemplate what was happening. All he’d known was that there were so many clues and signs but none of them made sense.

Fucking _werewolves_ didn’t make sense.

Except they did, and that was scarier than anything else that he’d experienced so far.

Down the hall, a few lockers down and across, Lydia is chatting with Allison, who’s trying to open her locker. Stiles watches her, but his mind is elsewhere. Scott’s is not.

“Maybe I should help.”

“How?” Stiles asks, blinking out of his stupor. “I mean—Scott. _Scott_.”

Scott is already walking away. Stiles exhales through his nose, pressing his lips together. As much as he loves his best friend, he has blinders. He can’t afford not to concentrate on what’s at hand; distractions just make things take longer. Stiles can never be distracted from something once he gets started, but he’s easily waylaid by life. Life and crushes, apparently.

“Hi. Do you need some help?”

Scott is unsurprisingly eloquent. As much as he’s a social loser, Stiles can’t deny that his best friend is a charmer. He’s so friendly that only the most asshole of assholes—like Jackson—can really turn him away. Allison seems just as susceptible to his crooked smile, glancing down at her feet for a moment and tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. Scott is beyond smitten.

“Oh. I, um—I just can’t get it open,” Allison explains, laughing a little.

“It’s no problem. They’re old lockers. They get stuck,” Scott reassures her. He tugs at the handle and after one second (just one; Stiles counts) it flies open, barely stopped by his hand before it hits Lydia. The redhead sends Allison an unimpressed look, her eyes wide and red lips pursed.

“Sorry. Wow, that—sorry, I didn’t mean—” Scott fumbles, rapidly losing his confidence, but Allison saves him.

“It’s okay! Thank you—that was…that was impressive,” she says, clearing her throat a little. She’s blushing.

This is the exact moment that Stiles realizes they’re going to end up together. He’s not sure if they’ll stay together or how long it will take, but he knows. He can tell by the way Scott looks at her like she’s a queen and the way Allison seems to find him endearing, even when he’s fumbling.

Stiles is about to take the opportunity to slip away when Lydia looks at the locker. She sees it the same time that he does—a tiny dent, just behind the handle. An impression from Scott’s hand. _Shit,_ Stiles thinks, not because she’s seen it but because he is suddenly almost one hundred percent certain. Scott couldn’t even properly crack a walnut with one hand before. Leaving dents on a metal locker doesn’t make sense.

The stranger thing is the way Lydia reacts. She inhales sharply, her gaze flicking to Scott. She turns to Allison, red hair flipping over her shoulder, and her smile is the same one she wore when she campaigned for queen at the last middle school dance.

“Allison, we should go. Places to be, people to meet.” Lydia hooks her arm through Allison’s and starts to walk away. Allison glances back at Scott, something curious in her gaze, but she stays with her best friend.

_She knows something,_ Stiles thinks, grip tightening on his backpack. _She has to_.

* * *

The library is mostly empty. It’s the middle of the day, after all, and most people are either in class or skipping somewhere in town. Stiles slides into a computer desk, keeping his head low, even though the librarian is more concerned with the book in her hand than anything else.

_Where do I even start?_

Stiles chews on his bottom lip, thinking, and tries a few searches. He has no idea what he’s looking for. He’d spent the previous nights researching werewolf lore, but most of his time had been spent sifting through Dungeons and Dragons homebrew forums, Twilight fanfiction, and conspiracy theories. By the time he’d finished, he felt a lot more paranoid and a lot less confident in humanity.

He settles on dragging up a few history books and maps of Beacon Hills, crawling through the stacks and hiding away in a far corner of the library. He feels a little guilty for leaving Scott behind, but he’s at least certain his friend will understand. Tryouts aren’t until after school and no one’s really assigning homework yet—other than Harris, of course. _He’s evil. Maybe he’s a werewolf,_ Stiles thinks, tired. All the days of not sleeping are piling on top of one another. If he’s not careful, he’ll either fall asleep in class or sleep through the weekend, which isn’t going to work. Not with the insidious mystery at hand.

He’s poring over a history book about Beacon Hills, trying to find some indication of anything—a founder, a history, some sort of magical pumpkin in the center of the original town—but all he finds is the fact that there used to be more kinds of trees. And he’s going to need glasses by the time he’s in college.

“Do you think he knows?”

“Of course, he knows. He’s smart. If he hasn’t figured it out yet, he will.”

_Cora—and Laura,_ Stiles realizes, pulling his legs up onto the chair he’s sitting in. He can hear their voices on the other side of the bookshelves before him, quiet and serious. He tries to make himself smaller, turning away from the shelves just in case and throwing an earbud in.

“I don’t see why we can’t just—” Cora starts, sounding as irritated as ever, and Stiles nervously bites his tongue.

“You know,” Laura replies, firm but amused. “Anyway, it’s not like he’s the problem, here. The problem is—”

They come around the corner and Stiles shoves his other earbud in, pretending to scratch his overgrown buzz cut and stare down at the book in his lap. _Please don’t come over here. Please don’t come over here,_ Stiles prays to himself. He can tell they’ve stopped talking, but he doesn’t want to look up. Not when Cora was just talking like she wanted to kill him, or something.

Laura smiles at him, her mouth strawberry-glossed and wickedly curved, leading her sister past. The weird smell of cheesecake and smoke still lingers as she passes him. Cora follows her sister, but her gaze is markedly more hostile. She glares at Stiles like he kicked her puppy—which is funny, because she almost seems like more of a cat person. Her perpetually-smudged eyeliner just serves to make her look more unhinged and murderous, like a tiger that someone made the bad decision to shove into a human body.

The Hales disappear and Stiles feels his heart thump into his throat. He swallows it back down, staring down at the book in his lap. _Well, that was terrifying_.

* * *

As it turns out, Beacon Hills has a werewolf history. Stiles learns this three minutes before lacrosse tryouts.

He has trouble paying attention to Coach Finstock.

“Where were you?” Scott asks as they jog around the field, a warm-up that he’s taking far better than Stiles. _Because he’s probably a werewolf,_ Stiles thought to himself, trying not to freak out. It was hard enough knowing that they might exist; it was harder to think that maybe he’d accidentally made Scott get bitten.

“Research,” Stiles says, trying to ignore the way Scott isn’t even breaking a sweat. “Scott, what else has been happening to you?”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean the thing! You know, the _things_ , the strength and—"

Finstock’s whistle cuts him off and Stiles groans, throwing himself into drills with everyone else.

Tryouts go exactly how Stiles expected—for him, at least. Scott manages to catch a dozen near-goals, impressing everyone and pissing off Jackson in the process. Scott has no trouble with the drills, completely energetic and prepared for everything. Stiles hangs on by the skin of his teeth, thanking his lucky stars for stamina. He knows before tryouts are over that he’s made it, just barely, and will probably end up on the bench for the rest of his high school career. He can’t even bring himself to care; he’s exhausted and distracted, his mind a mess of guilt and worry about the fact that there might be actual _werewolves_ running around in his hometown.

When Stiles finally turns away from the field to sit, exhausted and still emotionally tangled, he sees a figure in the distance.

Derek.

It’s not like he’s trying to be stealthy. The teen is openly staring, expression dark as he watches Stiles. For some reason, Stiles can sense the aftermath of motion—like Derek had been looking elsewhere and only then, turned to look at Stiles. The middle Hale is scowling, basketball under his arm, his gaze pinning Stiles in place.

_No. Screw that._ Stiles stares back defiantly; he’s done with games. It’s only the first week of school and already, he feels like he’s spiraling out of control. Werewolves are probably real, Scott’s probably bitten, the Hales seem to know and are angry about it, and Stiles’ father may or may not know the truth.

“Shit,” Stiles breathes, his heart suddenly dropping to his feet. _Dad._

The crushing weight of reality seems much worse and Stiles struggles to his feet, distantly aware that Finstock is dismissing them. Scott is chattering away happily but Stiles says something about the bathroom and manages to get inside the school, stripping his gear on the way, leaving a pile by his locker. He barely gets to the bathroom before his chest tightens a notch, constricting so much that he can’t properly breathe. Stiles throws himself into a stall, pulling the door shut behind him as he breathes raggedly.

_Accept it,_ he hears someone in his mind say. A clinical and calm woman, her eyes watching him with cool detachment. _Accept it. That’s the first step…_

He can’t.

It’s easier said than done. Years of practice haven’t helped him accept the panic attacks—sure, he’s accepted his mother’s death, but that’s about it. He’s accepted his part in everything and his father’s reactions to the stress and her death; he’s accepted every little bit, but he can’t accept that his body is allowed to shut down at any given moment. That his mind and his heart can trigger a reaction that leaves him gasping for air. He hates the attacks.

It passes like it always does—painfully, and with time. He’s just thankful that no one comes in. Stiles can hear the lacrosse hopefuls in the other room, laughing and talking. Their lives continue as always, following predictable paths with normal worries and joys.

_Meanwhile, I’m researching werewolves and being watched by three of the school’s most popular kids, who may or may not know about werewolves._

Stiles catches his breath after what seems like a fleeting moment. His hurting lungs tell him it was longer. Emerging from the haze of his mind, he can only scrub at his face with water, opening the door and getting lost in the crowded locker room. He puts on a smile for Scott, who frowns a little even though Stiles knows he’s acting normal, and they talk about tryouts. It’s as close to normal as they can get. It’s normal and fine, and then Stiles has to ruin it because if he doesn’t, he’s not sure what will happen.

“I think we need to go back into the woods.”

* * *

It’s ten at night and Stiles is scouring his closet for a black jacket. It’s at this point that he realizes his wardrobe is veering into possible lumberjack territory.

Stiles settles on his red hoodie because it’s ironic and if he dies, he at least wants to do it in style. He wonders if the werewolf will even notice. _What will it look like? Human? Half human? All wolf? What parts stay, if it’s half and half?_ They’re questions he wants answered, but he can’t let them distract him. They just fill up his brain with white noise, canceling out the current of exhilaration and adrenaline running through his veins.

“You sure about this?” Scott glances over his shoulder, crouching at the back of his house. He made it outside without waking his mother, at least. Stiles hopes the good luck sticks.

“Okay—remember how I told you I’d try and investigate?”

“Yeah.”

“Well, I did. And I found something weird,” Stiles says, joining Scott in trying to silently walk through patches of dead leaves without making too much noise. “Apparently, Beacon Hills has a history. A _werewolf_ history.”

“Werewolf?”

“Yeah. Hear me out—the Hales have been acting weird. They’ve been watching me, but not me. I think they’re watching you.”

“Why would they be watching me?” Scott asks, frowning. “And…I mean, I get that you’ve researched, but…”

“I know. I know it sounds crazy,” Stiles mutters, lifting his bike over the curb and waiting for Scott to join him. _None of this makes sense._ “Just…I tried, okay? I looked really hard and tried to find some reason for it, but…Scott, you dented a locker. You’ve been stronger and faster since that night. You’ve been different and the Hales seem to _know._ I’m not sure what their part in this is, but they know.”

Scott is quiet as they bike toward the woods. Stiles isn’t sure what to say or think anymore. It’s a lot to drop on someone at once, especially at the beginning of a new year. In the middle of a trip to the very woods that were the sight of the attack.

Stiles thinks, biting his tongue and forcing tears back, that he’s not sure what he’d do without Scott. His best friend has been there for him his entire life; they’ve been there for each other. Even if things haven’t always been perfect, they’ve been able to rely on each other. _We’re brothers. But what if I’m the reason my brother is turning into a monster?_ Stiles isn’t even sure how being bitten works, or how being a werewolf works. He looks up as he pedals, finding the moon with a worried brow. It’s almost full.

They come to the right trail after a short trip. Stiles leads the way because he doesn’t want to put Scott in front and because he still feels just a little too guilty at having made the mistake in the first place. _If I hadn’t asked him, none of this would have happened. If I had just calmed down and focused on something, or started reading a book, or braiding like mom taught me, or anything else…_

“I think someone’s here,” Scott whispers, crouching a little. Stiles stops in his tracks, heart hammering.

“We have to keep moving.”

“What if it’s a person? Maybe it was someone from Eichen that attacked me,” Scott adds, realization in his voice. Stiles bites his tongue and keeps moving forward. _It can’t be. Can it?_

“There was a tree,” Stiles remembers vaguely, trying to find his way in the dark. His phone doesn’t have enough light to see properly by and he moves slowly, despite the increasing worry in his chest. “I think. I can’t—maybe if we find it, we’ll find something. It could be—”

He never finishes. There’s a snap and the sound of crunching leaves and Stiles turns, a yell leaving his mouth before he can stop it. His hand curls tighter around the bat in his hand—a necessary item, once they’d decided to go at night—and he prepares to hit. His only thought is that he can’t let the werewolf (or crazy person) attack again. Stiles only has time to raise the bat before he’s stopped by a branch to his chest, prodding him warningly, and a familiar face.

“Deaton?”

“Mr. Stilinski,” the vet says, his tone dry as he looks at Stiles with a raised eyebrow. “You shouldn’t be out here. Isn’t it a little late for the sheriff’s son to be wandering in the woods?”

“Isn’t it a little late for the vet to be wandering the woods?” Stiles replies quickly, mind racing. _Is it him? Could it be?_ He’s suspicious and confused and generally wants to get this over with. Alan Deaton stays where he is, looking out of place in his knit sweater and brown shoes. Stiles can’t quite place him as an attacker, much less a killer.

“I’m a veterinarian. There are animals in the woods,” Deaton replies evenly. It’s a flimsy answer—they both know it—but it’s also a challenge. Stiles can answer and risk his secret, or he can turn around. “You shouldn’t be out here. It’s dark. You could get hurt—and I’m sure Mrs. McCall wouldn’t appreciate that.”

For the first time, Deaton’s eyes slide to Scott. Stiles looks for something there—anything; recognition, anger, worry, hostility. There’s nothing. Deaton is a blank slate and Stiles feels more frustrated than before. He wishes someone would just give him a straight answer.

He doesn’t want to feel crazy anymore.

“We’re just looking for something. Lost inhaler. Haven’t seen it, have you?” Stiles asks, keeping his tone light and cheerful. It comes out more strained than he’d intended. Deaton looks at people like he’s looking through them, which is both unnerving and annoying.

“I haven’t,” the vet replies, slowly lowering his stick, as if it’s some sort of deadly weapon. Stiles doesn’t doubt it could be. Deaton doesn’t seem like the type to make empty threats. “Why don’t you two head home? It’s late and there are things you don’t want to run into.”

A simple enough warning, but now that Stiles thinks he knows something, the words are more sinister. He wants to come out and ask; he’s tired of playing detective. Instead, Stiles shares a glance with Scott. His best friend gives him a look that clearly says _later_ , but Scott also looks suspicious of Deaton. It gives Stiles a little lift, knowing Scott finds Deaton just as untrustworthy as Stiles does.

“Yeah. We should be heading back anyway. Don’t want Scotty here losing his breath,” Stiles says casually, trying for a grin.

“Be careful out here,” Scott adds, polite as always.

They turn and walk away. Stiles can feel Deaton’s eyes on him the entire walk back to their bikes. He almost wants to hose himself down; the lingering presence of the vet feels off, somehow. As if Deaton was just one moment away from dragging them somewhere quiet and drugging them silly to forget the entire encounter. He hadn’t seemed threatening, but he had seemed calculating.

Stiles knows calculating. Calculating is never good, even in a good person. It’s dangerous.

“We’ll go back,” Scott promises as they ride back to their houses, the night air cool on their skin.

“Yeah,” Stiles says, mustering up the energy to smile. “Thanks.”

They never do go back. At least, not the same.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here we go...the ride will get bumpy from here! I might dial back to bi-weekly updates to accommodate my current schedule. Maybe if there's more interest, I can link Ko-Fi or something for people to check out and let me know if there's enough interest for quicker updates.  
> As always, thank you for reading!


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